


Saving Tony Stark

by AbaddonsLittleWItch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anti-Howard Stark, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Defensive Steve Rogers, Drug Abuse, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, References to Drugs, Tony Stark is a Twink, Tony has anxiety, Twink Tony - Freeform, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:22:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbaddonsLittleWItch/pseuds/AbaddonsLittleWItch
Summary: Tony Stark, 18, is a party boy, using drugs and drink to escape his responsibilities and the fact that he's in love with Steve Rogers. He doesnt know that Steve spends every day of his life trying to save Tony from himself.-Steve Rogers, alive long past his time because of the serum, has always looked out for Tony. Even as Tony descends onto a dangerous road towards addiction, he will never stop trying to save him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> all of my thanks and love to FestiveFerret, ashes0909, onlymorelove, Espresso Patronum, peppypear, karmavengers, and my main babe FreyaS for helping me get this out <3

The first time Steve saves Tony from his own reckless behavior is when he’s five. He’s in Howard’s lab, because Maria is out on business, and he’s under strict instructions to sit quietly and wait for daddy and Mr. Rogers to be done testing out new Captain America suit upgrades. But he’s five and he’s Tony, so it isn’t long before he’s bored and toddling around the lab on his chubby little legs, reaching for things on Howard’s desk that are shiny and distracting. Things like a blowtorch. He picks it up, his fat little fingers barely able to wrap around the handle and brings it close to his face, his bright brown eyes sparkling with curiosity. He’s reaching for the ‘on’ button that he’s seen his daddy press a few times, eager to watch the fire come out, to see how it works, and he’s almost got it -

“Easy there, Tony!” The blowtorch is plucked from his grasp and placed further back on the desk, out of his reach. Mr. Rogers is in his uniform, kneeling in front of him, his eyes crinkling with a kind smile. “Gotta be careful! We don’t want you getting hurt. Here, why don’t you play with this?” He places his shield down on the ground where Tony can reach and Tony’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. He knows how important Mr. Rogers’ shield is; daddy has told him so many times, usually when Tony asks if he can touch it. Mr. Rogers smiles at him again. “We’ll be done soon, champ, and then I’ll play with you all day, okay?” He ruffles Tony’s hair and goes back over to Howard, leaving Tony with his new favorite toy.

“Think you could pay a little less attention to your son, Howard?” Mr. Rogers doesn’t sound as nice anymore so Tony stops listening. He doesn’t hear his daddy’s response of “Seemed like you had it under control.” He doesn’t see Steve’s eyes narrow or hear his soft snort. He doesn’t know that Steve has just resolved to keep his eye on him.

It isn’t the last time Steve saves Tony.

~*~

“Tony - Tony, where are you?” There’s a thumping bass beat echoing through the house, pulsing in Tony’s head, drowning out his words as he screams over the music and the talk of the rest of the party goers.

“Hold on!” he shouts into the receiver, hoping Steve hears him and doesn’t hang up again. He makes his way out of the living room and towards the front the of the house, past two different couples in various stages of undress, around a boy vomiting into a trash bag, and over a girl who’s passed out with a cup spilled next to her. He finally reaches the front door, already open, and steps out into the cool night, taking his first breath of fresh air since he got to the party.

“Can you hear me now?” He hopes he sounds more sober than he is.

“Yes. Where are you?” Steve’s voice gives away no emotion, but Tony knows he must be nearing the end of his patience with these calls. It’s the fourth time this week Tony has had to call him for a ride because he’s been too drunk or high (or both) to see straight, let alone drive.

“55381 Willow Ave, just outside Manhattan.”

“Be there in twenty.” There’s a click and the line goes dead and Tony is left standing alone on the porch of a gaudy mansion that belongs to a kid he doesn’t even like. He allows himself a moment of mild shame, a twinge of embarrassment at having had to call Steve again, but then the cute blonde he was eyeing earlier is wrapping her arm around his shoulder, a cup in both hands, and pulling him back inside. He lets himself be led and snakes his arm around her waist as they head toward an open couch. She’s giggling about something she said, Tony didn’t hear, and he laughs back, pretending he’s paying attention to anything other than her low cut top and the skirt that’s riding up her thighs. When they reach the couch she pushes Tony down, spilling some of his drink, and straddles his lap, eyes ablaze with arousal. Tony takes his time, sipping on his new drink, eyeing her up and down, smiling into his cup, teasing her. She sets her own drink on the table next to them and runs her hands up his chest, leans in close to whisper, “I can think of something better you could do with your mouth.”

Tony grins and sets his cup next to hers, his other hand running up her side, pushing her shirt up. He doesn’t care that they’re in public, that there are other people sitting next to them, watching. They wouldn’t be the first couple that night to fuck on this couch, and they wouldn’t be the last. But as Tony finally moves in to kiss her, she disappears, and Tony is left blinking at a pair of muscular, jean-clad legs. His gaze moves up over a thick leather belt, a tight grey untucked shirt, and a brown leather jacket. And suddenly his heart is stuttering, pounding in his ears, as his eyes drink in the narrow waist, the thick biceps, the abs showing through the painted on shirt. His eyes continue up, taking in the pink lips turned down, the stormy blue eyes, the perfectly parted blonde hair that he longs to mess up.

And surely Steve can hear it, can hear Tony’s traitorous heart beating out a painful rhythm of attraction, and that must be why his face is set in agitation. It can’t be because Tony had just called him for a ride yet somehow found his way back into the house with a girl whose name he didn’t know. Tony barely has time to process that he should be embarrassed before Steve is reaching out a hand, grabbing him by the arm, and yanking him up. He spots the girl on the ground behind Steve as he stands, her face twisted in indignation as she glares at Captain America, and he shrugs apologetically.

Steve drags him through the house and back out the front door. His hand doesn’t leave Tony’s arm until they reach his bike, and he only lets go so he can push Tony onto the seat. He doesn’t say a word as he mounts, kick starts it, and takes off, and Tony sighs. He’s due for a lecture any day now and he’s tired of waiting for it. He’s not a patient person and every day that goes by without a peep from Steve only gives him more time to imagine how bad it will be when Steve finally blows. The thought of it turns his stomach in knots and makes him feel sick, make him feel like he’s going to -

Tony shakes Steve’s shoulders hard, points to the side of the road, and Steve silently pulls over. Before the bike is even fully stopped Tony stumbles off, falling to his hands and knees as every drink he had that night makes a reappearance. He’s gasping and shaking, retching horribly as his stomach clenches, completely empty, his body heaving. His throat burns as he tries to cough up more, but there’s nothing left, and he thinks about passing out because he can’t breathe and his eyes are watering and he wishes it would all just stop.

Steve’s warm hand lands on his shoulder and he draws breath again into greedy burning lungs, swallows down rancid spit only to cough it back up immediately.

“Breathe, Tony. Just breathe.” Steve’s voice is more gentle than it should be, solid and grounding. It’s more gentle than Tony deserves, but he does as he’s told. He doesn’t know how long he kneels there, sucking air in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to get control of himself. Steve is a patient statue behind him, waiting until Tony is ready, before guiding him back to the bike. When they’re both settled on it Steve pulls Tony’s arms around his waist and turns his head to say, “Hold on and close your eyes this time.”

For once in his life, Tony listens. The rest of the trip home and into his bed is uneventful, forgettable. In the morning, Tony won’t remember giggling wildly as he tripped over the garage steps. He won’t remember Steve carefully directing him around the island in the kitchen to the steps in the foyer, or Steve keeping a firm hold on him as he gracelessly walked up them. He won’t know that Steve stopped him in the bathroom, made him brush his teeth and drink a glass of water. He’ll have no idea that Steve got him out of his dirty shirt and suit jacket, helped him change into his pajama pants. When he wakes up, Tony will be under the impression that his sheets just fell on him like that, perfectly tucked up to his chin. He won’t think about it too hard. He never thinks about it too hard. It’s easier for him to not know that Steve Rogers has spent the last eighteen years looking out for him.

 

~*~

There’s an incessant pounding in his head, beating in time with his heart, and Tony closes his eyes tighter against it, as though that will make it disappear. His tongue is thick and swollen in his mouth and his throat is dry; he tries to swallow but there isn’t even enough to spit to choke down. He tries to move his hand, to wipe off the dried saliva clinging to his face, but his arms refuse to respond, feeling like dead weights attached to his body and about as useful. He feels his stomach roll as he breathes, nausea bubbling up, threatening to overwhelm him, and he groans, tries to move again, to roll his side, but he can’t, he just can’t. He gives up, even as another wave rolls over him, and then he’s coughing and retching and suddenly his body is moving of its own accord. No - there’s a hand, warm and solid, rolling him, directing him, and when he opens his eyes he sees another, pointing down at a bucket.

Tony vomits. His stomach muscles clench painfully around emptiness and his throat burns and his nose is filled with snot and his eyes are watering and...he’s going to die. He’s certain that this is going to be his end, he’s going to die like this, face in a bucket and bile in his mouth.

“Breathe.” It’s a command and Tony’s body responds on its own, inhaling air into screaming lungs, even as his body tries to find something more to throw up. It settles instead on filling his mouth with saliva, making him spit six times before he can finally flop back on the bed.

He squeezes his eyes shut again, throws his hand over his face, trying to block out the painful rays of sparkling sunlight.

“Time?” His voice is raspy and harsh and it scratches against his burning throat. He tries to swallow again but his mouth is somehow empty and god he’d give his entire inheritance for a glass of -

“Water.” Steve nudges him, makes him sit up halfway before placing a cool glass in his hand. Tony brings it to his face blindly because the sunlight still hurts and makes his head throb. He sips at the water greedily, begging it to heal him immediately. It won’t; it never does. He tries not to chug it down in one go anyways. He knows from first-hand experience how well that would go over with his stomach right now and he’s not eager to look into the bucket again so soon. After he’s drank almost half the glass, he tries to speak again.

“Time?” He still sounds tired, ragged, if not raspy. He hears Steve sigh somewhere to his left.

“12:18 pm.” His voice is tight and Tony knows that if he looks, he’ll see Steve’s eyebrows drawn together in disappointment and his mouth pulled down into a frown. He doesn’t want to see that face this afternoon. He looks anyways.

Steve is sitting in a chair so close to the bed that his knees are hitting it, the bucket between his feet. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a white shirt, over which his arms are folded, and his mouth is, indeed, set in a frown, lines creasing around his lips, but his eyes…. His brows are drawn down, but the ocean blue eyes underneath them aren’t disappointed or even angry. They’re sad. They’re staring at Tony, roving over him, and there’s an overwhelming sadness in them, and Tony is suddenly struck with an all-consuming need to crack a joke and make the eyes sparkle, or run his hand over Steve’s face and smooth out the lines. He needs to do something, anything. Anything to ensure that those eyes never look so broken again. His brain’s command to move and touch is halfway to his hand before Steve interrupts it.

“Howard’s waiting in the lab.”

_So?_ Tony thinks. What did that have to do with him? Who gives a fuck where Howard is or who he’s waiting on? _Waiting on._ Waiting on Tony… the pieces slide back into place with alarming clarity, worming into Tony’s brain like parasites, making it pound with memories, and he slaps his hand to his face. The meeting. The shareholders’ meeting. The meeting that could not only decide the fate of his future in the company but also Howard’s. He missed it.

The empty glass falls to the bed as Tony’s other hand joins the party of misery on his face. He groans, falls back into the pillows, prays that they’ll open up and swallow him whole and maybe somehow that will get him out of having to face Howard. The pillows don’t cooperate and Tony instead finds himself letting Steve drag him up out of the bed and into a pair of pants and a loose t-shirt. They don’t talk while Steve dresses him; they never do. It’s easier for both of them if they don’t, easier to pretend that this isn’t the fourth time in one week Tony’s woken up hungover and useless. Steve finally looks at him as his shirt goes over his head, expression soft and forgiving, and Tony hopes his eyes convey the gratitude he can’t bring himself to voice.

Once he’s dressed, Steve guides him out of his room with a warm hand on his back and doesn’t drop it until he’s certain Tony can walk in a straight line on his own. It makes Tony feel safe, cared for, sends a warm spike of comfort tingling over his skin from the contact, and Tony tries to focus more on that as they walk than the impending lecture he’s about to get. He knows he fucked up, knows Howard is sure to tear into him, but he can’t bring himself to really care. It won’t be the first time Howard has chewed him out over missing a meeting and it won’t be the last. Besides, the second he comes up with some shiny new tech for Howard to present, he’ll be forgiven and the cycle will reset.

Steve is quiet as they walk, but Tony notices his hands continuously clenching and unclenching. It’s the only silent tell he has, the only thing that belies the tension he feels as they get closer to the lab. He’s always like this when he brings Tony to see Howard; always a little quieter than usual, shoulders always drawn a little tighter, jaw tightly clenched. They’re small things, little tics that a less observant person wouldn’t notice. But Tony notices, and it never fails to make his chest tighten and flicker with an electric emotion. He knows Howard is going to give him shit, but it’s somehow easier to face when Steve is by his side and he can see the evidence of Steve’s protective feelings towards him. He should be bothered, should be annoyed that Steve still feels the need to defend him, to treat him like a child, but he refuses to think about it. It’s better if he doesn’t. Less embarrassing.

They reach Howard’s lab sooner than Tony would like and as they approach the glass doors and he sees Howard tinkering away at something on the table, a small rush of anxiety runs through him. And suddenly his skin is electrified with the desperate desire to turn around, to walk away, to refuse to talk to him, to say “No, I don’t want to face this”, and without thinking he reaches out and grips Steve’s arm, hard, silently begging him to help, to not make him face this alone.

“I’m here, Tony. It’s okay.” The words whisper across the small space between Steve’s mouth and Tony’s ear and Tony feels his head shaking without his permission and his foot is moving backward on it’s own, but before he can take a full step, Steve’s hand is there. It’s sitting on the small of his back, so large it nearly engulfs his spine, and it’s warm, heating Tony through his shirt. Each finger feels electric where it sits, a livewire of sensation nudging Tony forward, encouraging him, reminding him _can_ do this because he’s done it before. Tony takes a deep breath in, flexes his hand against Steve’s arm, focusing on the feel of sinew and muscle, committing it to memory so he can revisit it later while Howard is talking, then pushes the door open. He only drops his hand when Howard looks up, forcing Steve to follow him into the room. Steve doesn’t object, quietly takes a place behind Tony as Tony sits on one of Howard’s spinning stools.

Howard’s sharp eyes take in Tony sitting on the stool, one foot pushing against the ground as he lazily spins back and forth, and Steve standing behind him, arms folded. He looks back down at his project, speaks to it rather than Steve as he says, “Steve, I’d like a word with my son. Alone.”

Tony can feel Steve hesitating behind him and has to stop himself from turning around and begging Steve to stay. He would, if Tony asked, would do almost anything if Tony asked him. But Tony isn’t a child anymore and he can’t go running to Captain America every time his daddy upsets him, makes his chest feel tight, and his heart race. He has to face this alone, he knows it, shouldn’t have even dragged Steve into the lab in the first place. And then he feels it as Steve starts angling away, feels the loss of the heat that radiated from him, leaving Tony’s back cold, bereft. He suppresses the shiver that crawls across his bones at the loss, clenches his hands into his thighs so he doesn’t turn and dig them into Steve’s shirt instead. He doesn’t look, can’t look, can’t watch Steve moving across the lab, leaving him here, alone, unprotected.

He doesn’t look, but he does hear. 

“I’ll be right outside.”

It is a promise, rushing through Tony, warming him from the inside, and it’s a warning, shivering across the room to Howard like a rush of cold wind. The door closes quietly behind him.

Howard continues tinkering with his project, paying little attention to Tony as he resumes his spinning. It’s hard for Tony to sit still at the best of times, and neigh impossible in situations like this. Tony is sure it looks to Howard like he’s just distracted, like he isn’t interested in anything Howard is about to say. He doesn’t care. The silence stretches on, Howard working, Tony spinning, looking for things to distract himself with, and he is contemplating getting up and leaving when Howard finally puts down whatever it is he’s working on and looks up at Tony.

His eyes are cold, tired, the lines around them cutting creases that make him look old and worn down. A frown plays at the corners of his mouth, and Tony tries not to roll his eyes. He couldn’t possibly have disappointed Howard any more this time around than he did the last time. It’s an act, an attempt to manipulate Tony into guilt, into feeling like he should apologize. And maybe he would have, once, and maybe he would have even meant it, but now he just stares blandly back, praying this will end quickly so he can call Ty and find out where his next party is going to be.

“You missed the shareholders’ meeting.” He sounds tired rather than angry, disappointed. Tony doesn’t respond and he sighs softly. “You know how important that meeting is, Tony. I expected better of you.”

Tony’s foot pushes him to the left, twisting the stool. “Well, that’s your fault.”

Howard’s hand slams down on his desk, making Tony jump. “God _damnit_ , Tony! Why can’t you care about anything beyond partying for five fucking minutes!” His face is a mask of fury, eyes gleaming sharply, mouth twisted in a snarl. “How can I trust you to take over this fucking company when you won’t stop doing drugs long enough to even get yourself dressed in the morning!”

Tony’s face is on fire, a blush burning its way across his cheeks, the heat of it making him dizzy, as he glances towards the doors where Steve stands, spine straight and stiff. Steve is listening, Tony know he is; he can’t help it. Howard’s eyes glance towards the doors as well, and Tony watches as frustration and disgust dance across them. So Howard know that Steve helps him through his morning hangovers and doesn’t like it it. So what. Tony spins back to the right.

Howard’s voice is dangerously low and soft when he says, “What am I supposed to tell your mother?” Tony stops spinning. “How do I tell her that her only son doesn’t give a god damn about anything but drugs and booze?” Tony’s ears are on fire now, too, and he knows his skin must be burning cherry red with humiliation and shame. “How do I explain that the baby she almost died for is growing up to be a useless, disgraceful, failure?” Something sharp twists in Tony’s stomach at the mention of his mother’s difficult pregnancy. It knots in his intestines, making him feel sick again, and he can’t see suddenly, everything is blurry, but he can feel, he can feel his nails digging into his palm, blunt and sharp and he wishes it was Howard’s face he was cutting into rather than his own skin. “You’re gonna cry now? Can’t even take a fucking lecture like a man -”

“That’s enough, Howard.” The words are low, powerful, rumbling up from Steve’s chest to expand across the room like quiet thunder. Tony tries to focus on them, to focus on Steve and the steel of his voice and strength of his chest, because it’s suddenly there, in front of him, blocking his view, and Tony’s hands are moving towards it of their own accord, seeking comfort, seeking heat. He’s too cold, shivering, his blood freezing, rushing through him like ice water even as his skin is on fire, burning brightly, so hot he feels like it could melt Steve’s hand. Steve’s hand, which is gripping his upper arm, tugging him off the stool, pulling him towards the door. And he should be more concerned, more embarrassed by the fact that Steve has had to save him again from Howard, but he can’t summon the emotion, can only think about his mother’s face, her disappointment, the sadness that will live in her eyes when Howard talks to her and tells her, and he didn’t think of that before. Should have thought of that before. Before he went out last night, before he got drunk, before he took the little purple pill Ty gave him, before he had to call Steve.

They’re a floor up from the lab when the tears start falling. They run in tracks down his face, over his nose and into his mouth, and Steve doesn’t say a word, but he does let his hand run softly down Tony’s arm, lets his fingers wind through Tony’s and gives them a gentle squeeze. Tony sniffs quietly, accepting the consolation even as the shame that he’s let his father’s words get to him starts to seep in, and brings his unheld hand up to wipe at his eyes. He should be better than this, stronger than this. But if he’s being honest with himself, it isn’t the first time Howard’s words have cut him to the bone and laid him bare for Steve to see, and it isn’t the first time Steve has witnessed his tears, his weakness, his childish sniffles and red face.

The tears dry slowly as they walk, leaving his face feeling tacky and his eyes puffy. Tony’s awareness of Steve’s hand in his only grows, his skin tingling at each point of contact, and by the time they reach Tony’s bedroom, he feels like he’s about to combust. He heads straight for his bed, finally breaking contact with Steve, and flops onto it, air whooshing out of him and onto his pillow, heating his face. His eyes close gently and he feels like maybe he could pass out again and sleep for an entire day, and he rolls to his side, ready to do just that, when Steve’s voice calls to him.

“Tony.” It’s a siren’s song, pulling at him, making him open his bleary, itchy eyes, and for a split second, he hates Steve for it. Hates that he’s so reliant on Steve’s words and his voice and his solid stability, the calming eye in the hurricane that is his life.

“Yeah?” He tries not to sound as exhausted as he feels, tries to bolster his voice, to salvage at least a little of his dignity and not look like he’s all of five years old. It all flies out the window as Steve crouches next to him and brings a hand up, rough fingers brushing tenderly at his still wet cheek, and he knows his eyes are big, showing every emotion he desperately wants to keep locked away inside his chest. Steve looks he is about to say something profound, maybe offer some kind of verbal consolation, but then his eyes rove down over Tony’s body and a quick rush of air blows out of his nose. He stands, goes back to his chair, settles in with a book he grabs off the nightstand, glances back at Tony.

“Sleep.” He says, his voice low and soothing. “I’ll watch over you.”

And Tony believes him, trusts him. So he sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long everyone, I've been dealing with a death in my family.
> 
> All of my love and thanks to Karma and my boy, PJ, for betaing and inspiring me <3

It’s nearing eight pm when Tony finally wakes up again to the sound of his stomach voicing loud complaints at having been empty for almost an entire day. He groans and rolls over, blinks sleep out of his eyes, catches sight of Steve asleep in his chair, and suddenly his growling stomach doesn’t matter so much. At least, not nearly as much as watching Steve sleeping does. 

It’s a common sight for Tony, waking up to Steve in the chair, usually either reading or sketching, but sometimes snoring softly. It’s never dawned on Tony to wonder why he’s always there, doesn’t occur to him to wonder now. Steve has his own wing in the house, his own rooms, his own space, but somehow still manages to always be wherever Tony is when Tony’s home, and always, always, stays while Tony sleeps. Tony doesn’t care about why, doesn’t want to care about why. He lets his eyes rove over Steve, drinking in his form unabashedly.

He would die before he ever willingly admitted it outloud, but waking up before Steve and watching him sleep is one of his favorite things. It’s one of the only times he ever gets to simply to look at Steve, to let his eyes wander over him and map his face, his body, without fear of Steve or anyone else noticing. And, if he’s in the mood to be honest with himself, it’s always nice to wake up and see that Steve’s still there, still watching over him. It makes him feel….safe. Protected. Cared for. He wonders briefly if this is what it feels like to have a real parent before deciding that, no, it can’t be. Nothing he feels for Steve is even close to parental, even if Steve is old enough to be his dad, and even if that is how Steve feels about him.

Tony sighs his thoughts into his hand and lets his eyes catalogue Steve as a distraction. His large frame is stuffed into the chair, head tilted back in a position that can’t be comfortable. The dark blonde eyelashes dusting Steve’s pink cheeks are fluttering gently; he doesn’t have much longer before Steve is fully awake. His eyes move from Steve’s only slightly mussed hair to his softly parted lips, pink and full and a little dry from Steve’s snoring. Tony doesn’t care. They’re still beautiful, still kissable, still begging to be wetted by Tony’s tongue -

He forces his eyes down to the column of Steve’s neck before he can finish that line of thought. It never leads anywhere good, usually only ends in Tony chasing his desire to the bottom of a bottle. He focuses instead on the thick column of Steve’s neck, on the soft cream color of the skin there and the pulse he can see bounding lightly, and, oh….. how he longs to run his tongue over that pulse, to feel it spark and jump, to feel the muscle move and bunch as Steve swallows thickly when Tony finds the sweet spot where he can bite down and suck - 

He stops himself again, lets a small shiver rush through him as he shakes himself, shakes off the lust that he normally forces to lie dormant deep in his gut. His eyes continue their slow meander down Steve’s body, hungrily eating up the curve where his neck meets his shoulders, following the line until the top of his soft blue tee hides him from Tony’s eyes. He’s in the process of registering the broad width of Steve’s shoulders, how tightly they pull his t-shirt, how the muscles of his biceps are nearly ripping the seams, when Steve moves, only slightly, but enough to let Tony know he’s cutting his perusal close. His eyes drop down faster, drinking in the strong planes of Steve’s stomach, the abs defined by the shirt that must be one size too small, then further, to Steve’s lap. To the half formed tent in Steve’s pants. And it takes him longer than it should to fully understand what that means, because suddenly his genius brain has shorted out and heat is rising into his cheeks, making his face feel hot and too tight and he needs to, he should, he -

He tears his eyes away, doesn’t want to look anymore, doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want the train of thought that starts tugging at him, pulling him down a path where he’s no longer in the bed but is instead sitting in Steve’s lap, feeling that length grow harder underneath him as he rocks his hips. He could wrap his arms around those shoulders, let his fingers cling to the muscles barely hidden under the shirt, kiss the soft lips. He’d get to watch Steve wake up with wonder in his sleep fogged eyes, feel those big hands wrap around his waist as he registered Tony straddling him, grinding against him, as he took a breath with Tony’s mouth less than an inch away and -

The fantasy he wanted desperately to avoid is interrupted by his stomach growling loudly, voicing it’s complaints, and Steve’s eyes flicker open. Tony sees it when he hits full alertness, taking in Tony sitting on the bed, chin in his hand, his stomach still grumbling.

Tony smiles over his hands as Steve stretches, shaking out his tightened limbs, and yawns deeply. “Morning, sunshine.”

Steve’s smile is soft, indulgent. He leans forward, eyes sparkling with humor, claps his hands in front of him. “Pretty sure this is what most of us call night, Tony.”

Tony smiles back, is about to make a quip about being a creature of the night, when his stomach gurgles painfully. Steve glances at it, his smile growing.

“Luke’s?”

Tony is out of bed and throwing on jeans before the word has fully left Steve’s mouth.

“Luke’s.”

~*~

Tony is nine years old and Howard is laying into him about his engine building technique. He’s trying to help build a new type, a hybrid Howard calls it, part machine and part computer and Tony loves it, he does, the blend of the two, but he’s struggling. He’s only just finished making his own OS and now he’s trying to put it in a car and it’s hard but Howard doesn’t care, doesn’t want excuses. He just wants results. He can’t present excuses to the board, Tony knows, so Tony needs to do better, to be better, to use his stupid genius brain and figure it out, because isn’t that what his brain is for? To think and work and make his dad happy? And then Howard is yelling at him again because why is he crying when he should be taking criticism like a big boy, like a man, and Tony is scared and Howard is going to hit him if he doesn’t stop but he’s shaking and he can’t get ahold of himself and -

Steve is there. Nice Steve. Kind Steve, with his soft eyes and his easy smile, the special one that he only shows to Tony, and he looks at Tony like he’s something precious, something important. Tony likes Steve, likes it when he’s nearby, likes it when he smiles and his eyes sparkle and the blue in them glistens, like sunlight hitting water. He loves the way they glance down at him, bright and sweet. And then his hand is on Tony, holding him tight, tucking him into Steve’s side. Steve is warm and sturdy and the words he’s saying to Howard don’t register in Tony’s mind but he feels security in them, safety. He pulls Tony out of the lab as Howard shouts something, his words bouncing off the door as it shuts, and Tony rushes his little legs to keep up with Steve’s long angry strides. At least until Steve notices Tony huffing as he half runs, and suddenly he cuts his speed in half and smiles down at Tony again. He offers his hand and Tony takes it; it’s big and warm and calloused and fully engulfs Tony’s. He loves it, wants to keep his hand in Steve’s forever, the big fingers curling around his own smaller ones, keeping him safe. Steve leads him down the hallways, hand never leaving Tony’s, and Tony lets himself be lead, not worried about where they’re going, knowing he is safe as long Steve is around.

As soon as they reach the garage Steve picks Tony up like he weighs two pounds and plunks him onto the back of his bike. He grabs a helmet off the handle bars, plops it on Tony’s on head. It’s too big and falls over Tony’s eyes, blocking his vision and making him giggle. A thick finger moves into Tony’s eyeline, pushes the helmet back up gently. Steve’s face is revealed to Tony again and he’s smiling sweetly, chuckling, and Tony feels his stomach swoop and dance and suddenly his little genius mind is hyper aware of the way Steve’s nimble hands move as they buckle the helmet, of the space Steve occupies. And then Steve chucks Tony’s chin and winks at him and Tony stops thinking all together. He just watches as Steve swings a leg over the bike, settles into the seat. The engine rumbles to life beneath them and Steve tells Tony to hold on and Tony does, wrapping his skinny arms around Steve’s big waist. He grips Steve tight as they drive through the city, the lights from the buildings they pass twinkling in the sky, blurring into a rush of yellow against the deep blue of falling dusk.

They drive around for nearly half an hour and Tony quickly loses track of which turns they take, where exactly they are, until Steve finally pulls over next to a small diner. They’re in Brooklyn, he says, at his favorite joint, the place he used to come when he needed to get away, when he needed to relax. He takes Tony inside, orders Tony a large vanilla shake and a burger all to himself, and lets him get away with eating only half of it while drinking the whole shake. He doesn’t complain that Tony is costing him money, doesn’t admonish him for not finishing his dinner before inhaling the shake that could rightfully be called his dessert. He just lets Tony enjoy himself for a moment, laughs with him, tells him that he’s brilliant and doing things no other nine year old would be capable of. It’s the first time anyone has told Tony that they’re proud of him.

 

Tony shivers as the memory of Howard’s anger that day washes through him, chilling him to the bone, and wraps his arms tighter around Steve’s trim waist, seeking the heat that he always seems to emit. He feels Steve’s chest rise and fall with each steady breath, feels Steve turn his head slightly and run a rough hand over Tony's arms. The callouses drag roughly over him, making him shiver for a new reason. He sighs deeply as he feels the ice that had wrapped around his chest loosen and give, breaking up as it always does under the onslaught of Steve’s warmth. He closes his eyes, lets his head fall forward and rest against Steve’s broad shoulders. They’re hard and solid, reminding Tony of where he is and who he’s with. The leather of Steve’s jacket is cool and sticky against his cheek and he breathes deeply, inhaling the thick scent of leather and spice. His mind drifts again as they weave through traffic, wind whipping his hair around and stinging at his face, but he doesn’t go back to Howard. He thinks instead of Steve, only Steve, and the fact that this, here, having Steve in his arms as they drive towards their favorite diner, is what he really longs for. More than the floating euphoria of being high, more than the easy confidence of being drunk, he longs to be filled up with Steve, to feel Steve invading his senses.

It’s an emotion that he frequently ignores, evades, keeps locked up tight behind drinks and drugs. But it’s a knot of tangled emotion that, over the years, managed to lodge itself deep behind his sternum, somewhere in the region of his heart, and sometimes, usually when Tony’s feeling particularly emotional and his defenses are down, it pulses and tingles. It sends electricity sparking over Tony’s skin everywhere he touches Steve, heats him from the inside out, makes his heart race and his pulse echo in his ears.

So he drinks. He parties. He tells Steve he needs to blow off steam, needs to be away from his dad. Pretends the sad look in Steve’s eyes and the droop in his shoulders every time he leaves the house with Ty doesn’t bother him. But sometimes, whenever he deigns to be honest with himself, he thinks about it and he knows. He knows that all the drugs and drinking, all the parties and the beautiful people and the frequently bad sex he has with them….they’re all a pathetic, desperate attempt to fill the ever growing void that gnaws at his heart, that hollow dark place that sits empty and cold inside him, longing to be filled by Steve.

His thoughts slow with the bike as they pull up outside of Luke’s and Tony can’t stop the smile that breaks over his face. It’s a hole in the wall, really. A tiny place in the heart of Brooklyn, opened sometime in the late 50’s and somehow still around and doing business, even though there’s usually only one or two patrons ever there at a time. The checkered tables are always covered in a thin layer of grease, the red leather booths are all cracking and torn, and generally there’s only ever one waitress working at a time. The menu is short, no nonsense, burgers and breakfast food, all filled with a disgusting amount of cholesterol. Their burgers are passable, their fries often overdone, but their milkshakes, oh….they’re sweet, sugary, thick enough to need a spoon, and bursting with flavor.

It’s Tony and Steve’s favorite place in the whole of New York.

They wander in, a little bell over the door jingling their arrival to the one waitress hanging around behind the counter. She looks up from cleaning, smiles a light “Hello!” in greeting and directs them to a booth in the corner. The leather seats of it are cracked and split and they creak as Tony and Steve slide into opposite sides. Their waitress wanders over, smiles and introduces herself, and Steve gives their orders (two burgers and a soda for himself, one burger and a large vanilla milkshake for Tony). Tony watches her stroll back behind the counter and stick her ticket up in the window for the cook who’s appeared there. They sit in companionable silence after she’s gone while waiting for their food, siping waters that she brings before disappearing again.

Tony settles back onto the leather and rests his head in his hands, a small sigh whispering out between his lips. He stares out the window and lets his mind drift, mutely watches the cars going by, the red of the tail lights shining in bright patterns against the darkness, leaving spots behind his eyes. He imagines he can see codes in them, patterns, the answers to painful questions ringing unspoken in his head, the answers to the universe, even.

Tony gives himself a little shake. It’s nonsense, he knows that. The universe isn’t going to relay it’s divine code to him in the blinking tail lights of cars passing by a dinky little grease spoon in the middle of the night in the heart of Brooklyn, and it isn’t going to tell him what to do about the beautifully stoic man sitting across from him.

He sighs, blinks once, and lets the lights and their false promises wash away. He refocuses on Steve, who has been staring at him the entire time. He knows, can feel Steve’s eyes moving over him, watching him, assessing him. Tony chances a glance towards him and Steve’s eyes are searching, a little distant, but intent on Tony’s face. Tony isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but whatever he finds clearly isn’t what he wants to see, if the frown that grows on his pink mouth is anything to go by. A deep heavy sigh moves the muscular wall sitting across from him and This is it, Tony thinks. Steve is finally going to lecture him. He shrinks back into the creaking leather, wraps his arms around his middle in an effort to hold himself together as Steve leans forward and rest his hands on the table top, lacing his fingers together.

“How’s, uh….JARVIS? That’s what you’re calling it, right? How’s JARVIS coming along?”

Tony starts and his eyes snap to Steve’s and he doesn’t….he doesn’t look like he’s joking, like he’s trying to trick Tony into talking. He just looks mildly curious, interested. Attentive. Like he wants to listen to Tony, genuinely wants to hear what Tony’s been working on, what he’s been up to when he’s holed away in his lab and Tony…

He shifts forward, eyes suddenly bright and alert, leg bouncing under the table while his hands tap a nervous rhythm across it’s sticky top.

“Steve it’s- he’s- amazing! He’s almost ready, I think. I have a few more codes that still need tweaking because they’re just...ugh, but. He’s almost done. And he’s going to be amazing, and really useful, not like DUM-E or Butterfingers, and I think dad -”

He stops short, watching Steve’s face. His frown had been growing into a soft indulgent smile as Tony rambled but the mention of Howard had him looking down, a muscle ticking as his jaw clenched, and he finally looks back up through his lashes, and his eyes…

Tony inhales sharply at the expression radiating from Steve. It is fierce, defensive, protective, and desperately, profoundly, sad.

His face is drawn down, his mouth a tight line of chapped skin where his teeth worry over his lips. Small lines of concern spread from the corners of his eyes, turning them dark and sorrowful, and Tony suddenly knows he is finally seconds away from the lecture, the one where Steve tells him how disappointed he is, how just like Howard, he thinks Tony should be spending more time on his studies and his robots and building, creating, doing, doing more and more and-

“He’s wrong, you know.”

Steve looks up from the table where he’s clasped his hands together to capture Tony’s gaze in an endless sea of deep blue and Tony is trapped, unable to move or speak or even blink.

“Howard, I mean. He’s wrong about you. You’re not lazy, or useless, or a failure.”

Tony finds his freedom from the sincerity in Steve’s eyes and the genuineness in his voice in the corner of a napkin. It folds and bends and shreds nicely in his hands as Steve’s words continue washing over him, through him, making him blush and blink against the sudden pain radiating from just behind his eyes.

“You’re brilliant, Tony. Smart...smart doesn’t begin to cover your mind. The things you’ve created? DUM-E? U? Butterfingers? You brought him to life, Tony, you gave him a mind. There are so many awful things that brain of yours could be used for and you’re using it for good, to create beautiful and helpful things.”

He pauses, his eyes drifting down to bore a hole into his hands before he looks back up. His gaze has tightened, turning brighter, sharper, a strange passionate gleam lighting them up from within. He takes a deep breath before continuing, and if Tony didn’t know better he would say that he was witnessing Steve steel his resolve, and his next words come out in a rush, on a warm breath of air that blows across Tony like a summer breeze.

“You’re unfailingly kind, Tony. You’ve inherited your mother’s penchant for watching people and picking up on what they’re feeling and reaching out to them when they need, offering yourself in whatever way you think will help. And you’re charming.” A small smile plays over his lips as he carries on and Tony feels like he can’t catch enough breath in his lungs, like his ribs are going to explode right out of him with how hard his heart is pounding to the beat of Steve’s voice echoing through him.

“I’ve watched you grace the pants off even the most stubborn of boardroom executives, convincing them to listen to you, to take you seriously, to hear your ideas. You pull people into your orbit, Tony, and you don’t let them go until you’re good and ready to, and believe me when I say that they always wait for you to come back.” He stops, catching Tony’s eyes again, ensuring he has Tony’s undivided attention before continuing. As though Tony could even think to want to give his attention to something else right now.

“Tony. You’ve done things, accomplished things, that no other man your age has been able to do. Even Howard. And you know why? Because you’re better than he is, Tony. You’re smarter, you’re more clever, hell you’ve built every recent accomplishment he’s claimed!” Steve stops again, breathes hard through his nose, flexes his hands a couple times. “Look. I’ve watched you grow from the brightest most curious child I’d ever met into a handsome genius who’s building his own artificial intelligence program. And everything you bring into this world, you treat with care and affection, because you understand that even a silly robot like DUM-E has value, has worth, and deserves to be loved. I just wish you'd realize... that's true for you, too.”

Tony doesn’t see the blush shining faintly on Steve’s cheeks as he looks back down. He is too busy staring at the most fascinating water spot growing on the tiles of the ceiling, trying to decide if it looks more like a lion or a monkey. He decides on lion, though he could be wrong, it’s hard to really tell when he’s blinking so furiously that he only catches glimpses of the spot. He sniffs once, twice, looks back down at his completely shredded napkin, and wipes his nose.

Steve doesn’t call him out on it, doesn’t say anything at all. He just lets the silence envelop them again, lets Tony look back out the window and watch the taillights going by. His quiet steadiness soothes Tony’s nerves again as they wait for their food, a solid reminder that he’s still there, waiting patiently for Tony to come back around and make a joke.

He doesn’t, though. This time, for once, he keeps his mouth shut and lets his mind wander, lets his brain shut down and simply stares at the lights outside and begs the Universe to show him it’s hidden codes, to distract him, to let him not have to think because if he does...

It hurts. It hurts to think, to wonder, to imagine and want. It hurts to hear Steve say such beautiful things to him, such real things, such honest and earnest things. It opens up the secret space hidden behind his bones, cuts a path to his soft squishy heart beating a rapid rhythm. They can’t be true, the words that have wriggled into his mind, his heart, his entire body. They’re too beautiful, too full of possibility, too full of words that describe Tony in the wrong way. But he wants them, wants them to be real, and the longing for them, for Steve...it aches. So deep in his chest, it aches.

He doesn’t get to wallow for long before their food arrives and he is diving into the greatest shake to ever grace his tongue. He devours it in its entirety before even looking at his burger and when he finally does pick it up, he chances a glance at Steve, only to find him snickering into his fries as he watches Tony. And just like that, the tension passes, fades into the taste of salt and meat and sickly sweet shakes, and the knot in Tony’s chest unwinds again. The rest of their meal passes in joking quips and smirks, light banter and rolled up straw wrapper being tossed around.

Tony laughs gently as a wrapper moves past his face and falls to the floor, and his cheeks are starting to hurt from how much he’s laughing at the faces Steve makes every time he misses his mark. His eyes are sparkling and he’s letting out deep laughter that stems from the center of his chest and vibrates through Tony, making his skin spark and dance with adrenaline and joy. Their conversation ebbs and flows, moving gently from one subject to the next, and even the silences in between are comfortable, familiar. Tony feels no need to fill them with noise, no need to do anything at other beyond enjoy himself in the moment. He hasn’t been this happy in so long that he’s almost forgotten what it feels like, how easy it is to be near Steve.

He holds onto the feeling for as long he can.

It lasts exactly twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds.

Steve pulls back into the garage and Tony can feel his heart sinking from his chest into his stomach and the overwhelming feeling of desperately wanting to be anywhere other than here is creeping over him again, crawling across his skin, making him shiver and itch. Steve dismounts and looks at him, his eyes tired and aching as he searches his faces for an answer he won’t like, and he knows. He knows without Tony saying a word that he’s going to go out again tonight, that he’s going to drink and that he’s going to try whatever Ty gives him, and that he’s going to call Steve at some obnoxious hour and ask for a ride.

Steve sighs deeply and cups Tony’s face in one hand.

“Be careful. Please.”

Tony nods, like he always does, and Steve’s hand falls away, leaving his cheek tingling. Tony watches Steve as enters the house, leaving him cold and alone in the garage. He picks up his phone and dials Ty’s number by heart.

“I’ll pick you up in ten,” is all Ty says.

The cycle resets.


End file.
